LITMIR.BIZ

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the perfect place to take this one.

      He would burn them both.

      First this one, then the other.

      On her own evil hunting ground, he would find the site for his pyre.

      They all had to burn.

      Every last witch.

      Chapter Five

      The Winslow County Sheriff’s Department was a one-level, cinder-block structure that wasn’t going to win any architectural awards but was more than adequate for the twenty or so personnel who worked there. Sheriff Herbert Nunce occupied a corner office that was filled with untidy, stacked files and fishing paraphernalia. Detective Barbara Gillette shared an office with Will, her desk butted up to his. Her side was obsessively neat while Will’s was genially messy. He wasn’t a slob, but he couldn’t bring himself to have a desk whose surface was uncluttered. His “in” pile always held a couple of pages, and envelopes and notes were tucked to one side of a leather desk pad that was occupied by his coffee mug, some pens and pencils, and a framed picture of himself and Dylan a couple of summers after high school graduation.

      Will rarely wore a hat, and as he entered the building he ran his hands through his dark hair, pulling out rainwater. Indian summer had departed as if it were in a hurry to get somewhere else, and they were facing slanting rain, the kind normally reserved for late November and into winter.

      The reception desk was behind a wall of glass. Bulletproof glass, ever since one of the crazy meth-heads had come in and threatened with a gun. No more relaxed Mayberry offices after that.

      Will waved to Dot, the receptionist, who buzzed open a metal door. Behind it was a utilitarian hallway that led to the offices whose windows were not bulletproof, which only proved that governmental disposition of funds made no real sense and everything was management by crisis only.

      The shoulders of Will’s uniform were dark with rain and his shoes were soaked through so that he could feel a clamminess in his toes. Barb was seated at her desk, so her back was to the door; Will’s desk faced the entry. She swiveled when she heard him enter and her dark eyes gave him the once over.

      “Umbrellas not manly enough for you, Tanninger?”

      “Didn’t have one.”

      “Wouldn’t use it anyway,” she observed. “Or a hat.”

      “Rain’s gonna stop today,” Jimbo said as he walked by. James Sanchez, lean, mean, and full of swagger, worked Narcotics. His near-black hair was long and scruffy and his uniform was a pair of dirty jeans and a plaid flannel shirt over a black T-shirt. He’d come from Portland on a task force and he’d stayed on. He played by big-city rules. The sheriff didn’t quite know what to do with him, but Jimbo could get the job done that others couldn’t. No one believed he was attached to the sheriff’s department. No one.

      Barb ignored him. “You’d rather just get rain running down the back of your neck,” she said to Will.

      The slant of her look as he rounded his desk was decidedly sexy. Will inwardly sighed. They’d worked together over a year before they’d gone out on their first of two dates, and it had been pleasant and uneventful. Barb was a flirt, but Will hadn’t really been interested. Then one night she’d walked into a pub where he sometimes stopped after work to grab a beer and a sandwich, and they’d ended up spending several hours together. He’d gotten the impression she wanted them both to head to her house afterward, and as a means to sidestep the problem, he’d invited her out to dinner the next Friday evening. That had been a mistake. From the frying pan to the fire. Barb had dressed for the occasion in a silky dress that showed off every bump and scoop of her trim body, and she’d swayed in her seat at the restaurant to the soft jazz. She’d wanted to dance but there thankfully was no dance floor. Will had extricated himself from the evening somewhat awkwardly. He’d taken her back to her condo and excused himself after one nightcap. She’d wanted him to kiss her and when it was clear he was uncomfortable with that, she’d gotten mad and snarky. He’d left in a hurry and she’d been pissed at him the whole next month. She had only softened up—at least sort of—after he’d told her he just couldn’t go there right now. He hadn’t given her a specific reason; there was none, really. He just wasn’t all that attracted to her. But he’d treated her fairly, and slowly her fury had turned to a low simmer. Now she teased and verbally jabbed him, a play for attention, but it was better than the anger. Some of the other guys shot him looks of amusement or fake sympathy, but so far there hadn’t been any remarks that would have resulted in Barb getting all furious with him again.

      “Hey, Burl knows your hit-and-run friend from Quarry,” Barb said. “He lives around that area. Gave us a whole rundown on the LaPorte family. Colorful. Very colorful.”

      Will grunted. His interest was piqued but he didn’t want to share that with Barb. She was always fishing, where he was concerned, inordinately interested in how he reacted to any information. And Burlington “Burl” Jernstadt was about the biggest horse’s ass Will had run across in law enforcement. He made Ralph Smithson look like a piker. The fact that Burl was retired and had given up his job reluctantly—which translated loosely to leave or be let go—and that Will had been promoted into Burl’s job, didn’t mean that Burl had given up haunting the department offices. It didn’t matter that he’d been a loud, ineffectual, socially inept buffoon who’d screwed up more cases than he’d aided in, and that he’d been lucky to be eased out of the department rather than fired. Burl couldn’t stay away. That he resented Will for taking his job went without saying. To date no one had had the gumption to tell him to get out and stay out. Will sensed that day was coming. He half-dreaded, half-welcomed it.

      Whatever the case. He really didn’t want to talk to Burl. Except that the man knew something about Gemma LaPorte, and Gemma LaPorte was still his number-one guess for the avenger who’d run down Edward Letton.

      “Anything on Jean LaPorte’s car?” he asked.

      “Still no sign of it.”

      As soon as Will had learned Gemma’s name and situation, he’d done a background check on every member of her family. He’d learned a number of things about them, but what had snagged his attention first was that the LaPortes had owned two vehicles: Peter’s white Chevy truck—which he’d seen at the house—and Jean’s silver Camry, which was apparently MIA. Maybe the guy who’d dropped Gemma off at the hospital had it, or maybe Gemma had crashed it into Edward Letton, or maybe it was parked somewhere on the LaPorte property. Whatever the case, to date it hadn’t been found, and Gemma hadn’t called to say differently. There was no vehicle in Gemma’s own name.

      “Burl still around?” Will asked Barb.

      “Always. Probably by the coffee machine.”

      Which was next to the doughnut boxes. “No other silver Camrys with front-end damage discovered?”

      “Not in this county. One in Clatsop County but it was a Dodge Durango and the guy who smashed it up is in jail with his second DUI. Dot says your little friend’s been calling. Pellter with two l’s. Check your voice mail.”

      Will punched in the numbers of his phone and waited. Carol Pellter, having been saved from assault and probably death at the hands of Letton, had taken her story public, though her parents were clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing. The media had run the girl’s story of a really bad man trying to get her into his van, and had taken pictures of the outside of the impounded van. But it had been nearly a week since the event, and since Carol was alive and well, the prurient interest of the news watchers had moved on to events with more salacious pictures and tragic outcomes.

      Carol, however, was hanging onto her fifteen minutes of fame with all ten fingers.

      “Hi, Detective Tanninger,” Carol’s recorded voice stated primly. “I want to help in your investigation. I think you might need me. Could you please call me?” She left her number, speaking it clearly in a precise tone, twice.

      Will smiled to himself. Looking forward more to talking to

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